pureblood
by HISHOUTO
Summary: It's just blood. Nothing important. (Not HP compatible)
1. 00

_tears of blood,_  
 _hands of gold,_  
 _with breaths of ice_  
 _and a heart of stone._  
 _wait for me, my love_  
 _at the other end of the road,_  
 _where no light is present,_  
 _but only where terror grows._

"Stand tall." His words repeated inside her head, like a broken music box that plays the same song again and again. "Your father awaits."

 _oh dear, I fall;_  
 _the image of your lips,_  
 _the salt on your skin_  
 _sends me into an ocean of emotions,_  
 _giving me bliss._

She stood alone, dark material wrapped around her body, showing her curves, curly hair cascading downwards behind her back. Brown met gray, and all he could see was fear.

 _why must you pick me?_  
 _this isn't the life that will set me free!_  
 _I don't want this —_  
 _I don't want this!_  
 _but if you stand with me,_  
 _that's the only salvation I'll ever need._

"Granger." She tensed. "It's time."

 _the clock is ticking—_  
 _minutes become seconds,_  
 _and seconds turn to dust._  
 _you fill your hands with red,_  
 _red that is not your blood._  
 _and I search your eyes_  
 _for any sign of regret,_  
 _but I saw none._

He watched her stand, legs scratched and her fingers raw. The sound of darkness echoed across the room. "It is done."


	2. 01

She could feel the weight of her coat increase as she stood on the sidewalk alone, drenched in the pouring rain, with nothing but a damp hat to keep her hair dry. Droplets of rain splashed onto her shining muggle shoes as she suppressed a small sigh. Hermione was late for the family reunion. It was no surprise to as why she was. The Hogwarts train arrived late once again and it was driving the lass crazy.

She found herself glaring at her Toms.

Surely if it wasn't for that putrid Slytherin Pansy Parkinson, Hermione Granger would be lounging about her home with her mum and dad, eating chocolate chip her dear mum would make at this exact moment! She would be laughing at her father's lame jokes and do homework! Even reread Hogwarts: A History for the fifteenth time, or add more Beethoven tracks in her playlist.

Unfortunately, life wasn't her ally right now, so the brown-haired female had to suffer the punishment she didn't deserve. Now here she was, standing alone in the pouring rain. An inanimate object called a suitcase to keep her company, whilst thunder roared above the clouds.

"Jesus Christ," swore Hermione when the rain poured on to the earth harder like a drum. The temperature of the atmosphere was ice-cold, making her hair stand. Just the thought of her situation made the girl release a cry of exasperation and annoyance.

She certainly could not wait for the consequences of having to stay under the rain for a bloody hour! How fun would it be to be able to lay on bed every blood day until she gets better! Hopefully her parents have a box full of Kleenex to support her unhealthy situation.

"Bloody hell." Was her phrase. Hermione gripped the handle of her suitcase and her wand on the other. She would have apparated when she arrived at muggle London, but she remembered her father, who promised to pick her up himself when she arrived. But that promise was not to be fulfilled and it produced a bitter taste in Hermione's mouth.

She knew she should be understanding. Should be patiently waiting for her father to come pick her up, but she was too weary to even do anything and waiting was one of them.

A flash of magical light and a destination in mind, Hermione Granger apparated to the building where she spent ten years growing up as a regular muggle child, that was, until one letter changed her life forever and Hermione was introduced to things she's only read in books during her non-magical years.

She knocked.

Nothing but silence.

 _How odd_ , she thought, eyes wide and brows creased. She pressed her palm on the wooden door. Fisting her hand, she knocked twice and was again surprised when no one answered.

Taking out her wand, she muttered a charm and the door was unlatched from its lock. It made a creaking noise as Hermione pushed it open, entering the building.

The dull beige walls were still the same, with only a few pictures to fill them. Venturing further, she noticed how tidy the furniture looked; not a trace of improperly positioned pillows sat on the cherry-red sofa and the small, old clock that imitated the famous Big Ben stood alone beside the unplugged telly.

Hermione bent down and lifted the end of the carpet, expecting cookie crumbs hidden underneath. But she did not see crumbs of a biscuit; instead it was a piece of paper, edges ripped and body creased. Hermione slid her finger on the floor, rubbing it against the others. No dust. Her eyes focused on the strip of paper that was crushed inside her hand. She unfolded it, the furrow between her brows deepening and mouth unobstructed as she attempted to comprehend the words that were written in the structure of curves and circles.

" _Viva La Nyx_ ," she muttered absently, keeping her eyes focused on the words. She let her mind wonder to the knowledge she stored at the back of her head. She knows that Nyx is the female personification of the night, as said in the Greek Mythology books Hermione had read during her younger years. The daughter of Chaos and one of the first created beings, along with her father, Gaea, Tartarus and Erebus. Hermione frowned.

Peeling her eyes off the paper, Hermione tucked the note inside the pocket of her jeans, hearing the crumpling sound emitted as it was sandwiched between knitted leather.

She still hasn't found her parents and Hermione noticed that she had been rapidly swallowing the accumulating saliva in her mouth. Wand in hand, already positioned for surprise attacks, Hermione made her way up the stairs where she was certain her parents would be lounging about.

She shuddered. She did not just think of her parents creating a sibling for their benefit. Hermione silently prayed that they had used protection.

The floor boards sounded like they were shrieking with every step Hermione took. She casted a _Muffliato_ for the noise hurt her ears and it annoyed her in lengths greater than anyone could imagine. She should be quiet. The location of her parents were still unknown to her and who knows? Perhaps a serial killer was on the loose and turned her house into a hiding place.

Hermione froze. Moans were coming from her bed room.

She groaned internally, a look of disgust plastered on her face. Why did they have to do it in _her_ room of all places?

Hermione bolted to her room, footsteps echoing through the silent house, disturbing the ones who wished not to be disturbed. She twisted the knob open and choked back the urge to vomit. She her knees fall at the sight in front of her.

Blood. All she saw was blood.

"What the fuck—" She stumbled away from the doorframe, clutching the front of her shirt. The hallway listened to the gasp that escaped her lips. She shook from the cold and ignored the thick feeling her drying coat was offering. The atmosphere wreaked of the scent of blood and Hermione sucked in a breath as the smell reached her nose.

"Mum?" she called out. The silence answered her. "Dad?" Nothing.

Peeling her gaze off to what seemed like a god forbidden hallway, Hermione slowly stood. With wobbling legs, she reentered the bloodied room. She noticed how clean her bed appeared. The last time she visited, it looked catastrophic. The stuffed animals that sat on her window stared at her, following her every move. Their eyes were dilated, seeming as if they saw every terrible thing in the world. She found it awfully disturbing.

Her lips tugged down as she eyed the blood cautiously. It continued to stain the floor as it moved toward the door. A frown on her lips, Hermione glanced at the pool of blood descending to the door and walked toward where the source belonged. She followed the trail of red from the floor to the—

The sound of her footsteps came to a halt. The closet. _Her_ closet. She grasped the handle and pulled it open.

Two bodies covered in nothing but their own blood hung inside the young girl's closet. The bones that were supposed to be connected to their torsos were disembodied and lay pathetically on the flat bottom of the furniture. Above them, there were words that were portrayed in red and showed the profound enigma hidden behind the homicide committed upon them.

She need not to know the identity of the murdered victims, for it was already obvious.

She didn't notice the quiver on her lips. She didn't noticed that her wand had taken a swim on the pool of blood. _Her parents_ ' blood.

Hermione only paid attention to the speed of her spinning head and the frequency of her voice as she screamed.

 _Viva La Nyx,_ the blood said.

The clearing looked similarly like graveyards. Fog filled the empty streets and alleys. Not a single light can be illuminated in the vicious unknown of the dark. There were bodies littered everywhere. No one looked alive, not even him.

Pursed lips and a placid face, Draco Malfoy watched his father from a distance as he approached a masked Death Eater. Something was gnawing within his stomach and the lump on his throat seem to be growing when the anonymous follower of the Dark Lord glanced at him.

He shouldn't be afraid and he knew this. But who wouldn't be if they were a rookie in the Dark Lord's inner circle?

His teeth collided in between the skin inside his mouth. _Shut the fuck up, Draco. Act like a Malfoy_. He wasn't sure if there was still moisture in his eyes. He just wanted this Death Eater thing to be over.

To be safe.

His name was uttered by the lips of his sire. The young Malfoy headed forward. He bowed his head and the Death Eater nodded at Lucius in approval.

"Tonight," said the Death Eater, voice crisp and mighty like any other pureblood Death Eater should be. "We will feast."

The Death Eater walked away without another word, leaving the Slytherin Prince wondering what he had meant.

"Come now, Draco." The palm of his father's hands made contact with his back. He wanted to cut them off his body. "The Dark Lord awaits."

Lucius Malfoy walked away from his son. His own death eater mask was already in place as he got on his broom and flew away.

The fucktard forgot about him again. Jaw clenched, he summoned his own broom and glared at the direction his father flew off.

Someday. He would kill him.

With angry eyes and a heart that wasn't willing to forgive, he followed.


	3. 02

It must be the short breaths that escaped her body that was keeping her from running further. Beads of sweat were falling from her face and her hair a tangled mess as it flew behind her as she continued to dash within the depths of the forest. She looked up and saw the lines of the branches sketched on the sky. The clouds were gray and the indigo painted half of the sky like there was a coming storm when the night finally arrives. Distracted, she tripped and her gaze returned on what seemed like a never ending road of the unknown by the forest before her body hit the muddy ground and her vision blurred.

She cursed, pushing herself up with her bruised and filthy hands. Removing her coat, Hermione pulled her wand out of the pocket and muttered a charm. Fire erupted on the coat as she hopelessly sighed. Thunder roared above. Flinching, Hermione looked at the material that laid burning in front of her once more before turning around, quickly apparating to the place she knew oh-so-well: The Burrow.

With a flash of light and a sudden jolting sensation, Hermione, hair disheveled and mind slightly malfunctioning, fell face first on the muddy ground. She groaned and lifted herself up with her scratched elbows and muddy, bloody hands.

She froze.

 _Mudblood_.

She gritted her teeth as the simulacrum of them came into her mind once again. There was still that empty feeling in her chest, but she chose to ignore it, deciding that it was for the best.

Is death really the best solution to all problems? Her thoughts made it even more complicated for her to decide.

She focused her attention to the unsturdy-looking house that was held by magic. It was the same as it had been before, except for the lack of cheer and joy that radiated off its house walls. The house was quiet and it seemed like no one was planning to break the unavailability of sound. No one even came out to greet her.

Hermione sighed. Now was not the time for her to reminisce.

She cleaned herself with a Scourgifying charm and pocketed her wand inside her jeans, before heading off towards the entrance to the Weasley home.

She knocked, biting her lip impatiently. Someone should answer. Anyone should.

And they did. The door swung open to reveal the face of the tired-looking boy who had the famous scar given to him by the evilest wizard of all time.

Harry Potter was not a regular boy if one knew his story—which everyone knew. With parents murdered by the giver of his scar, he had been taken and sent to the relatives of his deceased mother, still a small, innocent infant who had no idea who he truly was until he had received the letter from Hogwarts that he, Harry Potter, was a wizard like his parents before him. Even if Harry didn't admit it, Hermione knew that it still awed him that he was not like his round Uncle Vernon and cousin Dudley. Or even his Aunt Petunia who always seem to be mad at him. The thought had always made Harry smile, she knew. His eyes would somehow light up in the most random moments and she would wonder, that was until she sorted it out.

However, there was no trace of joy in Harry's face. With his black hair disheveled as if it had not been combed for days, bags underneath his emerald eyes that only seem to grow, lips that were pulled into a small frown, and a complexion similar to corpse, Harry looked rather dead to Hermione.

He smiled forcibly at her, wrapping his arms around her small frame as he did. Hermione stayed still, not doing anything as The Boy Who Lived tried his best to give her comfort when it was he who needed it the most.

He kissed her head and Hermione wanted nothing but to tell him, and yet the words were trapped in her throat. She couldn't breathe.

His arms loosened around her and Hermione took the opportunity to break free from him as the silence consumed them.

"Harry, I—" she started but stopped as a terrifying amount  
of concern clouded his face.

She couldn't do this. He has too many problems to deal with and one of them is ending Voldemort. Too much burden for him to carry that he was exhausted to even stand straighter.

"I'll be in Ginny's room," uttered Hermione, making her way to Ginny's room upstairs.

"Hermione," said Harry, voice barely a whisper, and yet she heard him, making her stop. "It's going to be okay in the end, right?"

 _Will it really?_ She wanted to say but the look on his eyes were fragile. She could see the uncertainty in them, the smudge of fear evident like lines of brokenness on a glass that was prepared to fall apart.

"Yeah," she said, tone indifferent. It cracked. "It will."

With that, she disappeared, dubiety following her close behind as she concentrated on one thought:

He didn't ask her to continue.

"You're doing it again."

He didn't glance at the dark-skinned boy who was towering him as he sat alone. The temperature outside his room was freezing, considering that it was positioned at the highest tower of the Malfoy Manor, giving him the best view of the land that surrounded the building and the perfect setting for the cold. It was enough for Draco not to freeze to death, but not enough to make him feel numb.

"I never knew my father assigned you to be my guardian." He laughed hollowly. "How amiable of him."

Blaise Zabini breathed out a sough, allowing his breath to be visible in the cold. He gritted his teeth and inspired a voluminous measure of air into his lungs, only to release them once again.

"You should really stop," said Blaise, watching the red contrast his skin. It was tainting that ivory skin Draco had always been so proud of since his Hogwarts days. He remembered bragging his perfection and blood line to almost everyone, despite being a first year, earning him a thick face and a reputation of an arrogant prat.

Draco shook his head, eyes not leaving the skull and reptile that had been inked on his arm, as it was accompanied by the blood that was pouring out of his flesh. It was beautiful. The way he uttered one simple spell cut his flesh open, welcoming the beauty of blood into the world he was in. The world he loathed, the one he wished would disappear into pure nothingness.

" _Sectumsempra_." The words rolled off his tongue like the ones in a song. The pain was unbearable and it was almost impossible of him not to flinch. More blood came out near his Mark and his eyes grew wide masochistically.

"Draco, quit it!" Blaise made a move to grab his wand out of his hands, but Draco was faster. With a flick of his wand, Blaise Zabini rocketed a few feet from him, groaning as he hit the floor.

Draco immediately stood up. He did not feel regret as he watched his fellow Housemate try to stand up as blood poured out of his shoulder. Blaise sent him a glare, taking out his wand from his pocket robes, he exclaimed, " _Expelliarmus_!"

Draco dodged the spell, rolling over his back before standing up again, blood continuing to cascade down his arm, staining his perfect face.

"My blood is pure!" screamed Draco, shooting Blaise another spell. Anger coursed through his veins as he continued, "I'm fucking pure! I should be proud!"

 _But I'm not._

Blaise's face contorted from anger to disbelief. "Are you fucking kidding me? I'm pureblood too, you bloody git!"

He swished his wand in an attempt to control Draco, but Draco was still faster than he was.

He shouldn't have done it. He couldn't turn back time.

" _Crucio_!"

And he was drowning in regret as he listened to his friend scream in pain.


	4. 03

Glassy were his eyes as they followed the direction of the body that fell on the floor, great with pain. Though he wasn't the one to supposedly feel it, Draco could feel the magic sting his veins as if a hundred spears went right through him. He could feel the guilt building up inside of him, crushing his soul; tearing him apart.

"Fuck," he swore, dropping his wand like he had touched fire. The mark on his arm burned as he regarded the dark-skinned boy who was unconscious on the floor. "Fuck!"

 _He is summoning you._

Draco took in a sharp breath. It felt like he had needles in his lungs. Picking his wand up from the floor, he glanced at Blaise, watched as the Mark on his arm also burned. He looked away, turning his back from his friend then apparated to the gloomy garden of Malfoy Manor.

Immediately, he was on his knees, ignoring his messy platinum blond hair from the abrupt gush of wind from apparating as the Dark Lord stepped down from his cold, icy throne.

"My lord," said Draco monotonously once the Dark Lord was near him. At the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of blond hair and identified the person as his mother. She was standing with his father, along with the Death Eaters who were in the Dark Lord's inner circle. There was a frown on her face, making it easy for anyone to spot her.

He wanted to scream.

"Ah, the Malfoy Heir! Lovely!" said the Dark Lord with fraud enthusiasm. He motioned Draco to stand. An evil glint shined on the Dark Lord's bloodshot eyes. He smirked, leaning towards Draco's ear. "Now, where might Blaise Zabini be?"

He cackled violently, head thrown back and shaken. Beatrix Lestrange's maniacal laughter accompanied his, smirking at Draco as if it would give him the boost of confidence he desperately needed.

Draco ignored his Aunt. Ever since Voldemort designated his headquarters at Malfoy Manor, Draco did his best to avoid his fellow comrades. Constantly apparating or using invisibility cloaks as his instruments, he manuevered himself in the hallways and corridors of his home like a thief in the night.

He bowed his head. "I apologize my Lord," said Draco, eyeing his dragon skin boots that were nearly hidden beneath his robes. "Zabini and I had a small misunderstanding."

Voldemort cocked his head to the side, a slow grin appearing on his pale face. Teeth glistening from the light of the moon, he placed a hand on Draco's shoulder, leaning towards his ear.

Too close. His voice vicious and dripping with venom. Even as he uttered two syllables it came out as a hiss like of a snake's.

"I see," said Voldemort, pulling away from the boy. His hand, which clutched the collar of Draco's robes, moved away from the fabric and interlaced with the other, clasping them together as if the time he already won the fucking war. His glare was fixed on the blond haired boy in front him, then immediately it was gone, replaced once more with the same sadistic smile he always wore when he was pleased.

Beatrix Lestrange noticed this and without hesitation she asked, "What is it, my lord?"

Voldemort turned to the witch and his grin grew wider. "A new prophecy has been announced," said he, whose grin is becoming darker and more sinister. "A guest, Lestrange; the child of the night and darkness, a relative of Death. He will arrive, mighty and unbeatable. He will be our ally to win this war and take back the world that belongs to us."

Bellatrix didn't know how to shut up. "Where is _he_ , my lord?"

Voldemort, whose face crinkled with disgust, eyed the freed Azkaban prisoner. He had helped her escape. To break away from the chains that held her back from being at his side. As his servant.

She flinched as a devious smile appeared on her master's face. The Dark Lord, glanced at Draco. " _He_ , my dearest Bella, will be the task of the Malfoy heir to find."

Narcissa Malfoy let out a gasp. It was small, except it was still audible enough for the Dark Lord to hear.

Draco eyed his mother warily. Once, she stood among the minions of the Dark Lord with a facade of obedience and honour, unmarked and innocent. Her once hard eyes now trembled at the sight of Draco. She hadn't been able to see him for a month. Yesterday's arrival of her son and husband at the manor had left her grim instead of relieved.

He couldn't blame her. With all the things that has happened ever since the War began, he has become used to the insurmountable fear he wakes up to every day. The tremble in his hands as he clutches his white sheets, seeing red on them and gone when he blinks.

He has grown accustomed to the screams in the basement of his house, the flashes of green light outside his window, his own screams. His eyes would be red from merlin knows what and he would wash himself, relishing the ice cold splash of water on his skin.

He got used to the flashes of the great Albus Dumbledore's fall, the sight of tortured mudbloods, and red marks on skin. He sees them and reminisces the pain and frustration every damn night.

Voldemort sharply turned to Narcissa, who stood her ground even as the vilest wizard towered over her. He had his wand out of his robes and it connected easily to Narcissa's throat. She gritted her teeth, words escaping her mouth in a hiss. "He is merely a child."

"No." Lifting his head, Draco regarded the expression his mother was giving him. It was of pure horror and terribly hidden concern. "I will do it, my lord."

Viciously, the Dark Lord abruptly let go of Narcissa, putting his wand back to the pocket of his robes. He gave her a withering glare before he glanced at Draco.

"Given the circumstances, the Nott heir will accompany you in your search." _Theo?_ "If the both of you will return here empty handed—" he grinned "—consider yourselves dead. Do you understand?"

Theo had joined Draco in front. He can see his friend grip his robes, his knuckles white and shaking. They bowed.

"Yes, my lord."


End file.
